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Frank, a 60-year-old lawyer from St. Louis, was in West Hollywood for a rare business trip—a legal conference on corporate compliance. Back home, he was a creature of habit: laps at the JCC pool to clear his mind after long days at his firm, a quick rinse in a private stall, and evenings reviewing briefs in his quiet Home. He’d packed his navy Speedo, expecting the hotel’s recommended gym to be just another facility. He didn’t know West Hollywood’s pulse—its vibrant, unapologetic gay culture, the rainbow flags lining Santa Monica Boulevard. To him, a gym was weights, treadmills, a pool. Nothing more.
He finished his swim, his lean body cutting through the water with disciplined strokes, his chest heaving as he climbed out. Water dripped from his salt-and-pepper stubble, his goggles dangling in hand. The pool was nearly empty, just the hum of lights and the faint echo of his breaths. Towel slung over his shoulder, he followed a sign to the showers, expecting a familiar setup. Instead, he pushed through a glass door into a steamy, open shower room—tiles gleaming under soft lights, multiple showerheads hissing, and two men already there, their presence commanding the space.
They were in their late 40s, strikingly handsome, bodies sculpted like they lived for fitness. The dark-haired one, Evan, had a chiseled jaw, a playful smirk, and eyes that seemed to see too much. The blond, Liam, had piercing blue eyes, a tanned, lean frame, and a quiet confidence that felt magnetic. They stood close, water cascading over their skin, their laughter low, intimate. Frank froze, his Speedo clinging to his hips, realizing this was a gang shower—a setup he’d never encountered back home. His lawyer’s instinct was to retreat, analyze, control the situation, but Liam glanced over, his smile warm, disarming.
“Plenty of room,” Liam said, voice smooth as silk, nodding to the empty showerhead beside them.
Frank’s stomach knotted. In St. Louis, showers were solitary, no chatter, no lingering glances. Bolting now felt like admitting he was out of his depth, and Frank wasn’t used to that. “Thanks,” he muttered, stepping forward, turning on the water. The hot spray hit his back, and he hesitated before tugging off his Speedo, kicking it to the corner, trying to act nonchalant. The steam curled around him, but the air felt charged, heavier than it should’ve been.
Evan lathered soap across his chest, his movements slow, deliberate, his eyes flicking to Frank. “Not a local, are you?” he asked, his tone casual but probing.
“St. Louis,” Frank said, focusing on rinsing shampoo, keeping his gaze on the tiles. “Here for a conference.” He’d never heard of West Hollywood’s reputation, never registered the vibe of the neighborhood. These guys seemed friendly—too friendly, maybe—but he chalked it up to West Coast openness, a far cry from Midwest reserve.
Liam stepped closer, grabbing a bottle of body wash, his arm brushing Frank’s. “You’re in great shape,” he said, voice low, a hint of something electric beneath the compliment. “Swim keep you that fit?”
“Helps,” Frank replied, his pulse ticking up. The words were normal, but Liam’s proximity wasn’t. He should’ve grabbed his towel, headed out, but Liam’s hand grazed his shoulder, offering the soap. “Want some?”
The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Frank—warm, unsettling, alive. He took the bottle, their fingers brushing, and Liam’s smile deepened, like he’d caught a flicker of something in Frank’s eyes. “I’m good,” Frank said, voice tighter than he meant, but he didn’t move away. His lawyer’s mind—always calculating, always cautious—flagged the moment, but his body stayed.
Evan slid in now, standing just behind Frank, close enough that the heat of his body cut through the steam. “No need to rush,” he murmured, his voice a low hum, his hand resting lightly on Frank’s lower back, a soft, testing pressure.
Frank stiffened, his mind shouting to step out, to regain control. “I’m fine,” he said, but his feet stayed rooted. Evan’s fingers traced a slow, deliberate circle, and the sensation hit like a spark—wrong, maybe, but it stirred something dormant. Frank was straight, always had been—married once, divorced a decade ago, no kids, no complications. He’d never considered men, not like this, but the steam, the closeness, their confidence—it blurred the edges of his certainty.
Liam leaned in, his blue eyes soft but intent, water streaming down his face. “You’re okay, right?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He closed the distance, pressing a slow, tentative kiss to Frank’s jaw, then another, lingering, warm.
Frank’s breath hitched. He could’ve stopped it—should’ve—but the warmth of Liam’s lips unraveled a thread inside him. The kiss moved to his mouth, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, and Frank didn’t pull back. It was new, overwhelming, a heat that drowned his hesitation. Liam’s hands slid to his hips, pulling him closer, their wet bodies brushing under the spray. The taste of Liam’s kiss—bold, unapologetic—lit something in Frank, a curiosity he couldn’t name.
Evan’s hands roamed now, one gliding up Frank’s spine, sending shivers, the other teasing along his thigh, slow, deliberate. His lips brushed Frank’s neck, a soft graze that turned into a kiss, then a nip, each touch pulling Frank deeper into the moment. “Just feel it,” Evan whispered, his voice a velvet hum against Frank’s skin.
The foreplay was relentless, unhurried. Liam’s fingers traced Frank’s chest, circling his nipples, teasing until Frank’s breath came in short gasps. Evan’s hands explored lower, grazing Frank’s hips, his inner thighs, never rushing, each touch a question Frank answered by not pulling away. Liam kissed him again, deeper, his tongue exploring, while Evan pressed closer from behind, his lips trailing along Frank’s shoulder, his hands guiding Frank’s body into theirs. The steam wrapped them, the water a constant rhythm, amplifying every sensation.
Frank’s head spun. This wasn’t him—he’d built a life on structure, on knowing who he was. But their touches, their lips, their synchronized confidence—it cracked open a hunger he didn’t know he had. Liam’s hand slid lower, teasing Frank’s arousal, slow strokes that made Frank’s knees weak, while Evan’s fingers dug into his hips, grounding him, urging him to let go. They kissed each other now, inches from Frank’s face, their lips meeting in a heated dance, then turned back to him, Liam’s mouth claiming his, Evan’s teeth grazing his ear.
“On your knees,” Liam murmured, his voice a mix of command and invitation, his hand gentle but firm on Frank’s shoulder. Evan’s hand joined, guiding him down, the tiles cool against Frank’s skin.
Frank hesitated, his lawyer’s mind screaming—this was too far, too unknown. But their eyes, their touches, the raw want in the air—it overwhelmed him. He sank to his knees, heart pounding, as Liam stepped closer, his arousal evident, inviting. Evan’s hand rested on Frank’s neck, encouraging, not forcing, but steady. Frank’s lips parted, tentative at first, then bolder, taking Liam in, the act foreign but electric, a surrender to something primal. Liam’s low moan echoed, spurring Frank on, while Evan knelt beside him, kissing Frank’s shoulder, whispering, “You’re fucking incredible.”
The moment stretched, intense, consuming, until Liam pulled Frank up, kissing him fiercely, tasting himself on Frank’s lips. They moved as one now, guiding Frank out of the shower, towels forgotten, into the locker room. The space was empty, dimly lit, the air cooler but no less charged. They led him to a bench, Liam’s hands never leaving his skin, Evan’s eyes locked on his.
“Bend over,” Evan said, voice low, a smile playing on his lips. Frank’s breath caught, but Liam kissed him, slow and deep, easing him down, hands guiding him to the bench. Frank braced himself, heart racing, as Evan positioned behind him, Liam kneeling in front, kissing him, stroking him, keeping him anchored.
Evan entered him slowly, carefully, the sensation intense, unfamiliar, but the foreplay had left Frank open, craving. Liam’s kisses, his hands, kept Frank grounded, the pleasure building, overwhelming. Evan’s rhythm grew steadier, deeper, each thrust pulling moans from Frank he didn’t recognize as his own. He loved it—the fullness, the surrender, the way they surrounded him, wanted him. Liam’s lips never left his, their hands a constant dance across his skin, until the intensity crested, leaving Frank trembling, spent, alive.
They collapsed together, breathless, laughing softly, their arms steadying him. “You sticking around?” Liam asked, toweling off, his tone light but hopeful.
“Few more days,” Frank said, dazed, his body humming. He dressed, stepped into the night, the cool air sharp against his skin. St. Louis felt worlds away. He was a lawyer, a man of order, but tonight, he’d tasted something wild, forbidden—and he knew he’d carry it with him, a secret fire no brief could contain.
He finished his swim, his lean body cutting through the water with disciplined strokes, his chest heaving as he climbed out. Water dripped from his salt-and-pepper stubble, his goggles dangling in hand. The pool was nearly empty, just the hum of lights and the faint echo of his breaths. Towel slung over his shoulder, he followed a sign to the showers, expecting a familiar setup. Instead, he pushed through a glass door into a steamy, open shower room—tiles gleaming under soft lights, multiple showerheads hissing, and two men already there, their presence commanding the space.
They were in their late 40s, strikingly handsome, bodies sculpted like they lived for fitness. The dark-haired one, Evan, had a chiseled jaw, a playful smirk, and eyes that seemed to see too much. The blond, Liam, had piercing blue eyes, a tanned, lean frame, and a quiet confidence that felt magnetic. They stood close, water cascading over their skin, their laughter low, intimate. Frank froze, his Speedo clinging to his hips, realizing this was a gang shower—a setup he’d never encountered back home. His lawyer’s instinct was to retreat, analyze, control the situation, but Liam glanced over, his smile warm, disarming.
“Plenty of room,” Liam said, voice smooth as silk, nodding to the empty showerhead beside them.
Frank’s stomach knotted. In St. Louis, showers were solitary, no chatter, no lingering glances. Bolting now felt like admitting he was out of his depth, and Frank wasn’t used to that. “Thanks,” he muttered, stepping forward, turning on the water. The hot spray hit his back, and he hesitated before tugging off his Speedo, kicking it to the corner, trying to act nonchalant. The steam curled around him, but the air felt charged, heavier than it should’ve been.
Evan lathered soap across his chest, his movements slow, deliberate, his eyes flicking to Frank. “Not a local, are you?” he asked, his tone casual but probing.
“St. Louis,” Frank said, focusing on rinsing shampoo, keeping his gaze on the tiles. “Here for a conference.” He’d never heard of West Hollywood’s reputation, never registered the vibe of the neighborhood. These guys seemed friendly—too friendly, maybe—but he chalked it up to West Coast openness, a far cry from Midwest reserve.
Liam stepped closer, grabbing a bottle of body wash, his arm brushing Frank’s. “You’re in great shape,” he said, voice low, a hint of something electric beneath the compliment. “Swim keep you that fit?”
“Helps,” Frank replied, his pulse ticking up. The words were normal, but Liam’s proximity wasn’t. He should’ve grabbed his towel, headed out, but Liam’s hand grazed his shoulder, offering the soap. “Want some?”
The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Frank—warm, unsettling, alive. He took the bottle, their fingers brushing, and Liam’s smile deepened, like he’d caught a flicker of something in Frank’s eyes. “I’m good,” Frank said, voice tighter than he meant, but he didn’t move away. His lawyer’s mind—always calculating, always cautious—flagged the moment, but his body stayed.
Evan slid in now, standing just behind Frank, close enough that the heat of his body cut through the steam. “No need to rush,” he murmured, his voice a low hum, his hand resting lightly on Frank’s lower back, a soft, testing pressure.
Frank stiffened, his mind shouting to step out, to regain control. “I’m fine,” he said, but his feet stayed rooted. Evan’s fingers traced a slow, deliberate circle, and the sensation hit like a spark—wrong, maybe, but it stirred something dormant. Frank was straight, always had been—married once, divorced a decade ago, no kids, no complications. He’d never considered men, not like this, but the steam, the closeness, their confidence—it blurred the edges of his certainty.
Liam leaned in, his blue eyes soft but intent, water streaming down his face. “You’re okay, right?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He closed the distance, pressing a slow, tentative kiss to Frank’s jaw, then another, lingering, warm.
Frank’s breath hitched. He could’ve stopped it—should’ve—but the warmth of Liam’s lips unraveled a thread inside him. The kiss moved to his mouth, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, and Frank didn’t pull back. It was new, overwhelming, a heat that drowned his hesitation. Liam’s hands slid to his hips, pulling him closer, their wet bodies brushing under the spray. The taste of Liam’s kiss—bold, unapologetic—lit something in Frank, a curiosity he couldn’t name.
Evan’s hands roamed now, one gliding up Frank’s spine, sending shivers, the other teasing along his thigh, slow, deliberate. His lips brushed Frank’s neck, a soft graze that turned into a kiss, then a nip, each touch pulling Frank deeper into the moment. “Just feel it,” Evan whispered, his voice a velvet hum against Frank’s skin.
The foreplay was relentless, unhurried. Liam’s fingers traced Frank’s chest, circling his nipples, teasing until Frank’s breath came in short gasps. Evan’s hands explored lower, grazing Frank’s hips, his inner thighs, never rushing, each touch a question Frank answered by not pulling away. Liam kissed him again, deeper, his tongue exploring, while Evan pressed closer from behind, his lips trailing along Frank’s shoulder, his hands guiding Frank’s body into theirs. The steam wrapped them, the water a constant rhythm, amplifying every sensation.
Frank’s head spun. This wasn’t him—he’d built a life on structure, on knowing who he was. But their touches, their lips, their synchronized confidence—it cracked open a hunger he didn’t know he had. Liam’s hand slid lower, teasing Frank’s arousal, slow strokes that made Frank’s knees weak, while Evan’s fingers dug into his hips, grounding him, urging him to let go. They kissed each other now, inches from Frank’s face, their lips meeting in a heated dance, then turned back to him, Liam’s mouth claiming his, Evan’s teeth grazing his ear.
“On your knees,” Liam murmured, his voice a mix of command and invitation, his hand gentle but firm on Frank’s shoulder. Evan’s hand joined, guiding him down, the tiles cool against Frank’s skin.
Frank hesitated, his lawyer’s mind screaming—this was too far, too unknown. But their eyes, their touches, the raw want in the air—it overwhelmed him. He sank to his knees, heart pounding, as Liam stepped closer, his arousal evident, inviting. Evan’s hand rested on Frank’s neck, encouraging, not forcing, but steady. Frank’s lips parted, tentative at first, then bolder, taking Liam in, the act foreign but electric, a surrender to something primal. Liam’s low moan echoed, spurring Frank on, while Evan knelt beside him, kissing Frank’s shoulder, whispering, “You’re fucking incredible.”
The moment stretched, intense, consuming, until Liam pulled Frank up, kissing him fiercely, tasting himself on Frank’s lips. They moved as one now, guiding Frank out of the shower, towels forgotten, into the locker room. The space was empty, dimly lit, the air cooler but no less charged. They led him to a bench, Liam’s hands never leaving his skin, Evan’s eyes locked on his.
“Bend over,” Evan said, voice low, a smile playing on his lips. Frank’s breath caught, but Liam kissed him, slow and deep, easing him down, hands guiding him to the bench. Frank braced himself, heart racing, as Evan positioned behind him, Liam kneeling in front, kissing him, stroking him, keeping him anchored.
Evan entered him slowly, carefully, the sensation intense, unfamiliar, but the foreplay had left Frank open, craving. Liam’s kisses, his hands, kept Frank grounded, the pleasure building, overwhelming. Evan’s rhythm grew steadier, deeper, each thrust pulling moans from Frank he didn’t recognize as his own. He loved it—the fullness, the surrender, the way they surrounded him, wanted him. Liam’s lips never left his, their hands a constant dance across his skin, until the intensity crested, leaving Frank trembling, spent, alive.
They collapsed together, breathless, laughing softly, their arms steadying him. “You sticking around?” Liam asked, toweling off, his tone light but hopeful.
“Few more days,” Frank said, dazed, his body humming. He dressed, stepped into the night, the cool air sharp against his skin. St. Louis felt worlds away. He was a lawyer, a man of order, but tonight, he’d tasted something wild, forbidden—and he knew he’d carry it with him, a secret fire no brief could contain.
